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“To Helen”: Edgar Allan Poe; poem to Sarah Helen Whitman.
To Helen —sometimes published in Spanish as: To Elena— is a love poem by the American writer Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849), published in the November 1848 issue of the Union Magazine, and later republished in the 1850 anthology: Poems.
Who is the mysterious Helen whom EA Poe did you dedicate this poem to him?
Most specialists in the work of Edgar Allan Poe They agree that it is Sarah Helen Whitman, one of their secret loves.
To use a contemporary term, Sarah Helen Whitman I was a groupie. She admired Edgar Allan Poe as a writer, and whenever possible he attended his conferences and talks. In one of them he managed to get a mutual friend to introduce them.
The meeting place was the rose garden of an old house.
From then on, a love story full of chiaroscuros developed between them, and not precisely out of disinterest. Edgar Allan Poe He was perfectly capable of loving, but not of falling in love; At least not after the loss of his beloved wife, Virginia Clemm.
Of all the poems of Edgar Allan Poe, To Helen It is the least spontaneous. Its story begins at a Valentine’s Day party hosted in 1848 by Annie Lynch. On that occasion, the hostess asked Sarah Helen Whitman to write a poem to recite in public. The girl would write: To Edgar Allan Poe (To Edgar Allan Poe), and read it during the party. Unfortunately, he was not present.
Despite this disagreement, Edgar Allan Poe He found out about the party and the suggestive poem that Sarah Helen Whitman had dedicated to him. As retribution, the poet sent the young woman an anonymous letter that included the poem: To Helen (To Helen).
This gesture of subtle chivalry was not entirely effective.
The letter was anonymous, and Sarah Helen Whitman never suspected that the author was none other than Edgar Allan Poe.
Upon not receiving a response, Edgar Allan Poe He wrote to her again three months later, this time signing both the letter and the poem.
The relationship between Edgar Allan Poe and Sarah Helen Whitman She was, at best, passionate and enigmatic. Let us remember that the poet was heading to the young woman’s house when he supposedly decided to commit suicide, although the death of Edgar Allan Poe still continues to be a topic of debate.
To Helen portrays the moment when EA Poe saw for the first time Sarah Helen Whitman in that rose garden.
To Elena.
To Helen, Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)
I saw you once, just once, years ago:
I shouldn’t say how many, but not many.
It was midnight in July,
and a full moon that, like your soul,
also hovered in the firmament,
and eagerly sought a path through it.
A silver veil of light fell, with the stillness,
the sorrow and the torpor on the turned faces
to the vault of a thousand roses that grow in that enchanted garden,
where the wind only wanders stealthily, on tiptoe.
It fell on faces turned towards the sky
of these roses that exhaled,
in exchange for the tender light received,
their burning souls in ecstatic dying.
It fell on faces turned towards the night
of these roses that smiled and died,
bewitched by you,
and for the poetry of your presence.
Dressed in white, on a field of violets, I saw you half reclining,
while the moon fell on the turned faces
towards the firmament of roses, and on your face,
also turned towards the void, Ah! for Sadness.
Was it not Fate that this July night,
It was not Fate, whose name is also Pain,
the one who stopped me at the door of that garden
to breathe the aroma of those sleeping roses?
No footsteps could be heard;
The whole hated world slept,
Except you and me (Oh, Heavens, how my heart burns
by putting these two words together!).
Except you and me only.
I stopped, I looked… and in an instant
everything disappeared from my sight
(It was, in fact, an Enchanted Garden).
The glow of the moon disappeared,
also the soft grasses and the winding paths,
The lush trees and fortunate flowers disappeared;
The same perfume of the roses in the air expired.
Everything, everything died, except you;
except the divine light in your eyes,
the soul of your eyes raised towards the sky.
They were the only thing I saw;
They were the whole world to me:
They were the only thing I saw for hours,
the only thing I saw until the moon set.
What strange stories seem to lie
written in those crystalline, heavenly spheres!
What a serene sea empty of pride!
What daring ambition!
But how deep, what unfathomable capacity for love!
But at last, Diana descended towards the west
wrapped in stormy clouds; and you,
spectrum among the sepulchral trees, you vanished.
Only your eyes remained.
They didn’t want to leave
(they haven’t left yet).
They illuminated my lonely path back home.
They have not abandoned me for a moment
(as did my hopes) ever since.
They follow me, they lead me through the years;
They are my Masters, and I am their slave.
His job is to illuminate and enliven;
my duty, to be saved by its shining light,
and be purified in its electric fire,
sanctified in his elysiac fire.
They fill my soul with Beauty
(which is hope), and they shine on high,
stars before which I kneel
in the sad and silent vigils of the night.
Even in the middle of the meridian brightness of the day I see them:
two clear planets,
sparkling like Venus,
whose sweet shine the sun does not extinguish.
I most not say how many—but not many.
It was a July midnight; and from out
A full-orbed moon, that, like thine own soul, soaring,
Sought a precipitate pathway up through heaven.
There fell a silvery-silken veil of light,
With stillness, and sultriness, and slumber,
Upon the upturn’d faces of a thousand
Roses that grew in an enchanted garden,
Where no wind dared to stir, unless on tiptoe—
Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses
That gave out, in return for the love-light,
Their odorous souls in an ecstatic death—
Fell on the upturn’d faces of these roses
That smiled and died in this parterre, enchanted
By thee, and by the poetry of your presence.
Clad all in white, upon a violet bank
I saw thee half reclining; while the moon
Fell on the upturn’d faces of the roses,
And on thine own, upturn’d—alas, in sorrow!
Was it not Fate, that, on this July midnight—
Was it not Fate, (whose name is also Sorrow)
That bade paused me before that garden-gate,
To breathe the incense of those slumbering roses!
No footstep stirred: the hated world all slept,
Save only thee and me. (Oh, Heaven!—oh, God!
How my heart beats in coupling those two words!)
Save only thee and me. I paused—I looked—
And in an instant all things disappeared.
(Ah, bear in mind this garden was enchanted!)
The pearly luster of the moon went out:
The mossy banks and the meandering paths,
The happy flowers and the repining trees,
Were seen no more: the very roses’ odors
Died in the arms of the adoring airs.
All—all expired save thee—save less than thou:
Save only the divine light in thine eyes—
Save but the soul in thine uplifted eyes.
I saw but them—they were the world to me.
I saw but them—saw only them for hours—
Saw only them until the moon went down.
What wild heart-stories seemed to lie enwritten
Upon those crystalline, celestial spheres!
How dark a wo! yet how sublime a hope!
How silently serene a sea of pride!
How daring an ambition! yet how deep—
How fathomless a capacity for love!
But now, at length, dear Dian sank from sight,
Into a western couch of thunder-cloud;
And thou, a ghost, amid the entombing trees
Didst glide way. Only thin eyes remained.
They would not go—they never yet have gone.
Lighting my lonely pathway home that night,
They have not left me (as my hopes have) since.
They follow me—they lead me through the years.
They are my ministers—yet I their slave.
Their office is to illuminate and enkindle—
My duty, to be saved by their bright light,
And purified in their electric fire,
And sanctified in their elysian fire.
They fill my soul with Beauty (which is Hope,)
And are far up in Heaven—the stars I kneel to
In the sad, silent watches of my night;
While even in the meridian glare of day
I see them still—two sweetly scintillant
Venuses, unextinguished by the sun!
Edgar Allan Poe (1809-1849)
More gothic poems. I Poems of Edgar Allan Poe.
More gothic literature:
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